


The Buttercup Field

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alterna, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid!Lock, M/M, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8619028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock and John meet as children in a buttercup field.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in the seasonal collection. Sherlock is about 4, John is about 6. Please leave comments!
> 
> -pp

The field wavered in the delicate spring heat, thousands of golden buttercup heads bobbing in unison to the rhythm of the breeze.  They tickled John’s knees as he ran through them joyfully, brushing them with the tips of his fingers, gathering them in bunches and sprinkling the petals over his head.  It was rather lonely, living way out here with only his mother and father and poor, sickly sister, but all things considered, John was not unhappy.  He fell blissfully into the field, taking an appreciative sniff of the downy clover underneath the buttercups. Petals rippled from his fingers.  He sang, he shouted, he talked to the wind. 

Continuing his journey, he adopted the snarl of an adventurer, prowling and hacking at the buttercups like they were the vines of a steamy jungle.  “I shall get the treasure!” he muttered darkly to himself, crouching in the greenery so low that only the top of his canvas hat poked above the blossoms.  He pretended to draw a sword from his sheath (his mother wouldn’t let him have a foam one) and brandished it at a cluster of sweet-smelling heather.  “Beast, come out!”  A giggle burbled out of him, silly, silly, there were no beasts in the buttercup field. 

Weren’t there?

To his astonishment, another little boy crept sheepishly out behind the thicket. 

Instantly, John was transfixed.  Everyone in his family had soft blonde hair and ruddy complexions.  Given, Harriet’s hair was more auburn than brown, but it was still very light.  This boy was unlike anyone he had ever seen.  His eyes glowed green and alert, his head was full of precocious black curls, his skin was whiter than the clouds in the sky.  

John reached out a hand to touch him and the boy flinched.  “Don’t” he said sharply.  “I just want to feel it.  Can I?  Please?” John whispered gently.  He tried to seem as nonthreatening as possible.  He removed his hat.  The boy relaxed a little bit and proffered his head to John, who reached out his hand to touch his hair in all its velvet innocence. 

It was soft.  Softer than anything John had ever felt.  He burrowed his whole hand into it and laid it flat against the boy’s warm scalp, fluffed it, smoothed it down.  A quiet mewl issued from the boy’s mouth and he flopped on to the ground as John continued to ruffle his hair.  He sat down next to the boy in order to continue working at it.  Every so often the boy would give a shudder of happiness, and his beautiful green eyes would flicker open to stare into John’s blue ones.  The beast was tamed.  

In the distance, John’s mother stood on the doorstep to their home and looked affectionately at her son, playing so nicely with the neighbor’s child.  She smiled a secret smile to herself and went back inside.  

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, and John learned that a) his new friend’s name was Sherlock Holmes, and b)  he was probably one of the smartest people John knew.  He could tell anything about you just by looking.  For instance, before John even had the chance to make a formal introduction, Sherlock had deduced his name from the letter stitched into his sweater, and his age from his height and weight.  He had a funny habit of saying things like “I deduce…” and “Obvious” and “Do you follow?” which were the most elegant and adult phrases that John had heard from a child his age.  

At the end of the day, they sat in silence deep in the buttercups, picking absentmindedly at the flowers and twirling them in between their fingers.  John’s mother shouted for him at the edge of the field.  John stood to go and gave the black-haired boy a last pat on the head.  He was a tad disheartened that the boy didn’t say if they were meeting again, but right before he took a step towards his house, Sherlock leaned into his side and murmured “Tomorrow, then, John.”  And John grinned and grinned as he walked home.  


End file.
